Enough
by writinginthesky
Summary: The admission of love is terrifying. The admission of hate, so much easier. Death is easy. Life is hard.


Harry Potter's famed emerald eyes opened to another day. "Mmm," he sighed contentedly and reached over to wrap his arm around Draco Malfoy's waist.

His hand was met with the chill air of the Head's dormitory, not the pale, silky flesh he was expecting. Harry grumbled and turned onto his side and peered nearsightedly across a fuzzy mass of balled-up white sheets. He called his glasses to balance on his face with a wandless accio and sighed as his bed came into focus. No, he had not missed anything. For the moment anyway, Draco was gone. "Probably in the bathroom fixing his hair," Harry chuckled to himself. Yes. Chuckled. "I'll have to get used to that," he realized. "Chuckling, laughing, probably giggling like a ponce." He grinned despite the unnerving realization. He'd never been so happy in his life. And despite the fact that Draco was absent, he knew that he would come back. He would always come back now. He had compared the way they needed each other to a story he was reading, Tristan and Isolde. Harry hadn't wanted to point out that they were star-crossed lovers, fated to die. Draco hadn't read that far yet.

The tingling in his chest spread to the tips of his fingers and toes and he could no longer stay in bed. He would find him and snog his face off, Harry decided with glee. But he looked all over the spacious dorm, and couldn't find him anywhere. He dressed quickly in a form-fitting green v-neck tee shirt, black skinny jeans, and his worn topsiders, beginning to feel worried. As he stepped outside, he was visually assaulted by the sight of his two best friends wildly eating each other's faces.

"Merlin!" Harry said, shielding his poor, unsuspecting eyes, "It's bloody nine o'clock in the morning!"

With a cocky grin and a face as red as his famous Weasley hair, Ron turned to him quickly. "We're at war, Harry! Seize the day! Er… Herms? What's that phrasy thing again?"

Hermione's hair seemed to stand on end even more when she was mid-snog, Harry thought absent-mindedly. "Carpe diem, Ron," she said bookishly.

"Right. That's it. Oh, Draco went by a few minutes ago. Ferret said he was grabbing something from his room and to meet him there."

"Don't call him that," Harry said out of habit, his long legs already taking him down the hall. The obnoxious sucking noises resumed, to his disgust.

He was nearing the Slytherin side of the castle when he started hearing whispering. The soft noises seemed to get louder and louder in a cruel crescendo until they were harsh jeers and threats. People had even started laughing evilly. His pace quickened until he was running, wondering where Draco was and why his name was perpetuating the jeers. Draco had decided it would be best to tell only Hermione and Ron of their new relationship. Was he hurt? Had someone overheard a telling conversation or seen a stolen kiss? The door to the common room was already open as he galloped in. "Draco?" he called frantically.

"Right here, Potter," Draco said in the coldest voice he had ever heard him use.

"It's Harry now. You know that." Harry turned around slowly. Instantly, vicious pain laced through his entire body. For a second, he thought someone had cast a nonverbal cruciatus curse. But the only cause of pain was the sight of Pansy Parkinson wrapped around Draco, kissing his neck in the same places he had, ruffling his hair the same way he had. Draco wasn't protesting. He was rubbing her leg possessively and smiling cruelly.

"You know, I always thought the Boy-Who-Lived would be a good shag. Guess I was wrong."

Harry couldn't see, couldn't think. He just ran. He summoned his broom and stumbled his way to the quidditch pitch. In the sky, things were normally so much clearer. Nothing mattered but the wind and the feeling of controlled movement and speed. But today, despite what had happened, the only thing that mattered was Draco. It would always be that way for him. With no meaning in his life but the memories of their few days together, his entire life would collapse. He had promised himself to never live in his memories, always in the present. He would never be able to keep that promise. Not ever again. With the thoughts of their few days rushing through his head – the warm smile that Draco had never been capable of before Harry, the way he laughed at him, poked fun yet made him feel so loved… he knew he would never be whole again. Because whether Draco wanted him or not, he carried a piece of Harry's heart in the curve of his smile, in the sound of his laugh. In the beat of his true heart – the one he shared with so few. With these thoughts swarming through his brain, he made his choice. He flew recklessly around the pitch one last time, swooping and feinting and finally rising as high as he could. He rose toward the cold of misty clouds and then turned. He dove into a wronsky feint, zooming closer and closer to the ground. He never pulled up.

Crabbe and Goyle rushed into the common room cheering. Draco, who had been staring into the fire, glanced up at them. He was cold despite the blankets layered on top of him.

"It worked!" Crabbe crowed. "Harry Potter is dead!"

Goyle clapped him on the back. "You're a legend, Malfoy!"

Draco's head dropped into the sea of blankets. "I know. Now go and celebrate somewhere else. Potter kept me up late last night with his endless simpering and I'm tired."

They left Draco alone, never seeing the solitary tear travel down the contours of his pale, thin face. He suddenly looked ancient.

They found him the next day in the Head's dorm, lying in a mass of tangled white sheets. Even with his wrist slashed, he was beautiful. As they moved him, his left arm fell from where it had been curled under his chest. The dark mark that had once graced his fragile arm had been cut out. In his hand was a crumpled piece of paper. Draco Malfoy's graceful handwriting filled the parchment.

"I knew how Tristan and Isolde ended. I knew. I knew hate and fear. I knew far too much. But thanks to him… thanks to him I knew love. And it's enough. Finally, forever, enough."

It was all he wrote, everything he had harvested from his 17 years. His legacy. It was enough.


End file.
